The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  He looked at the port bottle, and looked away again. This was not a time to hide from the world.

  *

  Hardcastle took the service on Sunday as usual. The Rossiter family and servants came, listened politely, put money in the collection plate and departed with gracious words of thanks for another fine sermon. James Rossiter lingered.

  ‘Is there any further news?’

  ‘The affair is all but done. He still has not confessed, though I hope to make him do so. But the evidence is strong enough to hang him, I fear.’

  ‘This is a truly tragic affair,’ said Rossiter quietly. ‘Thank you, reverend, for handling it in such a sensitive manner. I am grateful to you.’ He departed, limping on his ebony stick. Hardcastle watched his retreating back.

  He was in the habit of taking tea with Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, his most loyal parishioners, once every month or so, and that afternoon he called around at their tumbledown cottage near the southern end of the village. They were alone, their two nieces having left them shortly after New Year. They welcomed him in with pleasure, Miss Godfrey fussing and Miss Roper twittering, and served him tea spiked with a large quantity of brandy and ginger cake so over-baked that it crumbled into dust in his fingers. Then they sat and gossiped, he listening with half his mind while the other half thought about tomorrow.

  Something they said made him sit up a little. ‘Old Mrs Rossiter? You mean, Mrs Amélie Rossiter, James Rossiter’s mother who is buried in the churchyard? I did not know you knew her.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Godfrey, pouring more brandy into the teapot. The bottle glugged in her hand. ‘We moved to St Mary in the Marsh not long before she died. Let me see, Clara, was it ’sixty-seven, or ’sixty-eight?’

  ‘I feel quite certain it was ’sixty-eight,’ said Miss Roper. ‘It was the summer we had those frightful thunderstorms; do you remember, Rosannah?’

  ‘That was definitely in ’sixty-seven,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘I cannot say that we knew Mrs Rossiter well, but we called on her a few times, and she on us before her illness made her too infirm to go out. She was very amiable, very pleasant. She was French, you know, from a Huguenot family, the Mirabeaus. The men of New Hall seem to make a habit of marrying French women,’ she went on thoughtfully, as if not at all certain this was a good thing.

  ‘Was she then a widow?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and had been for many years. Her husband died not long after all that unpleasantness in ’forty-five. The family were very down at the heels by the time we came here. New Hall was quite shabby, and one got the feeling there was very little money about.’

  The rector frowned. ‘How strange. Did her sons not support her?’

  ‘Well, you see, both boys had gone to America,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘I think she may have received a little money from time to time from the older son, Mr Nicholas. She never spoke of Mr James, did she, Clara?’

  ‘Not at all, in my hearing,’ said Miss Roper. ‘I think there must have been a falling out between them, don’t you?’

  This was proving to be a richer seam of information about the family than any he had struck so far. He wondered why he had not thought of talking to Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper before now. ‘Were there any other children, or family?’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘It was such a long time ago. There were two daughters, sisters of Mr Nicholas and Mr James. Jane married Mr Parker, of course, and there was another: Martha? Mary?’

  ‘I feel quite certain it was Martha,’ said Miss Roper, pouring more tea.

  ‘Then it was undoubtedly Mary,’ said Miss Godfrey firmly. ‘She married, I think perhaps not very well, and moved to Ireland. My memory is that Mrs Rossiter was unhappy with both her daughters’ marriages. Well, one can see why, what with Jane marrying the son of the family solicitor. It was hardly what she would have had in mind for her eldest daughter.’

  ‘Was that the whole of the family?’ asked the rector.

  ‘Oh, no. Amélie’s husband had siblings too. There was a brother who I seem to recall died childless, and there were twin sisters. Now that I think of it, one of them married a Frenchman too.’

  ‘Heavens above!’ exclaimed Miss Roper. ‘What is this fascination with the French?’

  ‘It is said that the French make love beautifully,’ commented Miss Godfrey.

  ‘Then make love with them by all means, but don’t marry them! What are these women thinking of?’

  A combination of brandy and rapidly assimilated information was making the rector’s head whirl.

  ‘Ladies,’ he said, ‘I am indebted to you. And now I fear I must take my leave, as I have many affairs to attend to. Your company, as always, has been most charming.’

  *

  The arraignment took place the following day, Monday 30th January. The hearing lasted for two minutes. The clerk of the court read out the charge; Samuel Rossiter entered a plea of not guilty in a quiet, steady voice, and was returned to his cell. Hardcastle, in a foul temper, continued with the business of the court. He handed out swingeing fines to the two men guilty of affray, fined another man for allowing his dogs to run loose, and then examined a case of attempted sheep stealing. There was not enough evidence to secure a conviction, but Hardcastle warned the defendant that if he was caught a second time he would be transported to Botany Bay.

  Old Lottie Strange was brought before him, charged with intoxication and bad behaviour in a public place. ‘Why pick on me?’ shouted Lottie, her one remaining front tooth shining yellow in the light. ‘Every bugger in the town was drunk that night! ’Course they were, there was a run on! People were pissing gin!’

  ‘Don’t answer back to the magistrate,’ warned the clerk of the court.

  ‘You can fuck off and all!’ snapped Lottie.

  ‘Silence!’ roared the rector. ‘Mrs Strange, you are in contempt of court. I sentence you to one day’s imprisonment. And if you repeat the offence, I will have you flogged down the high street! Do I make myself clear?’

  Afterwards he was ashamed of himself. He knew he would never have carried out the threat; he abhorred the practice of publicly flogging women, which all too often turned into a spectator sport with unpleasant sexual overtones. Lottie was always rude, to everyone – that was why she had so few teeth – and losing his temper with her was pointless. He knew he would not have done so, were it not for Samuel Rossiter.

  Driving back to St Mary, the rector turned in at the Star. The common room was empty, for it was still only mid-afternoon. ‘Strong ale,’ he said to the landlord.

  ‘Coming up, reverend.’ Luckhurst pushed the tankard across the bar and took Hardcastle’s money. ‘Bad day?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About that young fellow, is it? They say he killed his sister and all. Even so, Josh says he’s quite a well-mannered lad.’

  Everyone knew that today was the day of the arraignment; everyone knew everything in St Mary. ‘He is,’ said the rector. ‘However, it is out of my hands now.’

  It was indeed out of his hands, and had been since the arraignment was concluded. In early March a prison van would arrive to take Samuel Rossiter to Maidstone, and the chapter would be closed. Time to get on with our lives, the rector thought.

  The door opened and Joshua Stemp came in. He looked weather-beaten and tired, his pockmarked cheeks a little sunken. ‘I’ve got some bad news, reverend,’ he said quietly.

  The rector motioned him away from the bar and they went and sat down next to the fire. ‘There was a run night before last,’ Stemp said directly. ‘The lads went over to France as usual and met with the other side near Wee Meroo. The Frenchies were nervous as cats when they arrived. The lads didn’t take any notice at first, they thought the Frenchies were just worried about the Mary Josies.’

  The maréchaussées were the French constables; gendarmes, the Republican government now called them. Their duties included the prevention of smuggling, a task at which they were about as successful as the Cus
toms and the Excise services; which was to say, not at all. ‘Go on,’ said the rector.

  Stemp sipped the gin the rector had bought him. ‘But that wasn’t it at all. Bertrand, the leader of the Frenchies, started talking to some of the lads while the boats were loading. He said they’d had to make a run of their own earlier this month, a special one, not a regular thing. Some big bastard from Paris showed up with a warrant to commandeer two boats for a trip across the Channel. When one of the lugger captains refused, the fellow from Paris had him shot on the spot. Killed him dead. He had a wife and kiddies, too.’

  ‘Revolutionary justice,’ said the rector. ‘What were they ferrying across the Channel to England?’

  ‘French spies,’ said Stemp.

  *

  Preoccupied as he was by the matter of Samuel Rossiter, the rector did not at first take in what Stemp had said. Then he stared at his constable. ‘What?’

  ‘Eight of them, four in each boat. The big fellow was in Bertrand’s boat. Landed each group in a different destination; he wouldn’t tell us where. They were scared to death. There was a half moon, and the boats were visible out on the water like it was daylight, and there were two of our brigs upwind, riding off Dover. How they weren’t spotted, he said he’d never know.’

  Eight of them; four in each boat. In a small corner of his mind, the rector wondered if Stemp had noticed his earlier slip of the tongue. The rest of him was concentrating on this new emergency. ‘Half moon? Waxing or waning?’

  ‘Waxing. Don’t you remember, we had a couple of clear nights, around the seventh and eighth, before the weather drew in again.’

  ‘That was three weeks ago,’ said the rector, low-voiced. ‘Eight French agents. My God, they could be anywhere.’

  Stemp shook his head. ‘Looks like old Bill Haytor might have been right after all. About that lookers’ hut.’

  ‘You said the French smugglers were still nervous. Why?’

  ‘The big fellow said this was just the beginning. More agents were coming, and the French captains would be obliged to take them across the Channel too. Bertrand and his lads don’t like running spies, you see, neither side does. It’s risky, and there’s no profit in it.’ Stemp looked at the rector. ‘I’ve saved the best for last.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bertrand had seen the big bastard before, and knew his name. Care to guess what it is, reverend?’

  ‘Foucarmont,’ the rector said grimly. Now he had both murder and espionage on his hands.

  Chapter 10

  The Prisoner’s Tale

  One had to hand it to Clavertye, Hardcastle thought: when action was required, his lordship moved like a scalded cat.

  Hardcastle’s message, written in haste on the afternoon of the 30th, brought a swift response. Clavertye himself came sweeping down to the Marsh the following morning, riding his fastest horse; his carriage, with baggage, servants and secretary, was not far behind. Another column of East Kent Volunteers came quick-marching down the Ashford road, a full company this time, fife squealing and colours waving in the north wind. After establishing his headquarters in New Romney, astride the two most important roads in the Marsh, the deputy lord lieutenant sent messengers racing away to the north and west and south-west, summoning men to a council of war.

  Hardcastle, filing into the common room of the Ship with Stemp behind him, saw that most of the others had already arrived. Coates, the mayor of New Romney, was there wearing his chain of office and a look of worry on his solemn face. A red-coated captain of volunteers stood leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar. Hardcastle saw several of his fellow magistrates, including Maudsley from up-country, and a group of men in working clothes, some of whom he recognised as parish constables from across the Marsh and the hills behind. Juddery of the Excise service and Cole, supervisor of the Customs men, stood on opposite sides of the room, ignoring each other in their normal way.

  Half the men in this room probably have connections with smuggling, Hardcastle thought; Maudsley certainly does. And of course, the Customs and the Excise are notorious for their dislike of each other. It will be interesting to see whether Clavertye can get them all to work together.

  Lord Clavertye stood facing them at one end of the room, tall and commanding, one hand tucked into his waistcoat. ‘I expect you all know each other,’ he said without preamble. ‘Although some may not have met Captain Austen of the East Kent Volunteers.’ Captain Austen removed the cigar from his mouth and bowed.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how serious this matter is,’ Clavertye continued. ‘At least eight French agents were landed on this coast three weeks ago, and there may be others about whom we don’t yet know. It is likely that an attempt will be made to land more agents in the near future. The leader of these men is Camille de Foucarmont, the French spy and murderer who, as I need hardly remind you, evaded our justice last year.’

  A murmur rippled around the room at the name. ‘What Foucarmont’s intentions are, we can only surmise. He and his men may be intending to attack our installations, powder mills, or the navy yard at Deal. They may plan to incite the traitors and sympathisers among our own folk: members of the London Corresponding Society and the United Englishmen and that ilk. Or,’ and he paused for emphasis, ‘this may be the prelude to an invasion.

  ‘Gentlemen: the nation is in peril. The storms at the turn of the year blew our ships off their blockade stations, and now a sizeable proportion of the French fleet has escaped from Brest and is at sea. They carry several thousand troops with them, and their destination is the British Isles. The Spanish fleet has also put to sea. The most likely prospect is that the enemy will try a landing in Ireland. In that event, the French will be looking to create distractions elsewhere – such as here, in Kent – that will tie down our own troops and force us to divert men and supplies from our army in Ireland.

  ‘That must not happen. These agents must be found and rounded up, at once.’

  Heads nodded around the room, serious and sober. Swiftly, Clavertye gave them their orders. ‘Austen, your men will patrol the roads. Set up watch points at all key junctions; the local men will show you where. Search and interrogate anyone acting suspiciously. Juddery, Cole: we’ll need some of your men for the watch points too. Take the rest and start searching the places where these men might hole up. Barns, lookers’ huts, any isolated structures. Parish constables: you’ll help guide these patrols, and I want a local man stationed at every watch point too. Your role is vital; you know the local people, know their names and faces, and can help identify strangers. This is far more important work than catching smugglers or petty local rivalries. We need to work together to catch these men who are aiming to destabilise our country and bring their foul revolution to our shores.

  ‘Headquarters will be here, at the Ship, and I or one of my deputies will always be here. Inform me immediately of any developments, no matter what the time, day or night. Any questions? Then, gentlemen, to work.’

  The gathering began to break up. Clavertye caught the rector’s eye. ‘Hardcastle, a moment, if you please.’

  They walked into the parlour that Clavertye had taken over as his office; his secretary was there, unpacking his writing desk, while another servant pinned a map of Romney Marsh and the inland area to the wall. ‘I’ve received some new information on your murderer,’ said Clavertye directly. ‘I’m afraid the matter is rather more serious than you or I suspected.’

  ‘Oh? In what way, my lord?’

  ‘It has become apparent that there is a connection between your Samuel Rossiter and Foucarmont. Accordingly, I am having Rossiter transported up to Maidstone tomorrow, under heavy escort in case his friends try again to rescue him. Once I have Foucarmont and his gang in custody, I’ll interrogate Rossiter myself more fully.’

  The rector rubbed his chin. ‘Do I understand you correctly? You are seriously suggesting that Samuel Rossiter is in league with French agents? That he himself is a French spy?’

 
‘Precisely. Does it not strike you as suspicious that he arrived on the Marsh just before the French agents were landed? And that he went straight to New Hall, where Foucarmont formerly had his lair? It was clearly a rendezvous, no doubt previously arranged, all parties secure in the knowledge that New Hall would be empty and there would be no witnesses. The caretaker, I’ve no doubt, was lured away.

  ‘Frankly, Hardcastle, I am surprised you didn’t think of all this before. However, we may still be in time. Whatever scheme Foucarmont may have in mind, we’ll catch him.’

  ‘May I ask what led your lordship to this conclusion?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘What does anyone know about Rossiter, before he turned up in Montréal two years ago?’

  ‘Nothing. He has told us nothing.’

  ‘Exactly. He could have been anywhere before that, couldn’t he? Even in France itself, come to that. That’s only speculation, of course. But we do know that when Rossiter arrived in London, he went straight to Marylebone, which has a large black population and also a large number of French émigrés living cheek by jowl. The French community is riddled with enemy spies. Foucarmont had lived there, did you know?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘And, the London Corresponding Society is prominent in Marylebone too. Mark this,’ said Clavertye, raising a finger, ‘the house where Rossiter and his sister stayed is owned by a prominent member of that Society. Did you know that?’

  Hardcastle shook his head.

  ‘The London Corresponding Society is a nest of vipers,’ said Clavertye passionately. ‘Recently, they’ve been recruiting members of the coloured community by pretending to support the abolitionist cause. There’s a man who goes by the name of Olaudah Equiano, who campaigns against slavery but who is also a member of the Corresponding Society and encourages his fellow blacks to join. Oh, and he’s a Methodist, of course. I need hardly add that Marylebone is also rotten with Methodism.’